I didn’t see it. I drove by daily and hadn’t noticed. But Sunday, there it was. A single plant amongst the weeds: tall purple spires of the Pride of Madiera. They blossom this time of year. And it always surprises me. I forget they’re there. Waiting for the right time and just enough water. Every year they come out to claim the hillsides, and a sad looking field of weeds transforms. Color.
It happens in the classroom this time of year. Amongst the weeds of fifth-grade drama, some writers show up. Stories and poems filled with voice.
Last week, we started working on a classroom poetry anthology. We dabbled in a bit of narrative writing too. The notebooks house their poems. Google docs hold their stories.
Lunch time rolled around yesterday, and kids come to talk, to eat and talk, to eat and talk and write. Usually, their writing is digital. But today they noticed the poems I’d put on the wall.
“Someday I’m going to do this,” T said, and she pointed at a concrete poem.
I thought she meant the form.
But that wasn’t it.
She wanted to put a poem on the wall.
I told her, go ahead. Claim a space.
Next thing I know, color.
Just yesterday, there was nothing there.
Now poems decorate the door.
It happens this time of year. Every year it surprises me. I forget they’re there. Waiting. When they’re ready, writers bloom.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for Slice of Life Tuesdays. Read more slices here.
To Read To Write To Be 